Each person, each team-member, and each intern that works with us helps us to build relationships with the communities we minister to. While these amazing people can only be with us for a short time the energy, creativity, and encouragement they bring to the field is of vital importance to GoodSports’ mission: reaching Children with the love of Christ.
This particular testimony is from Abby, a Cedarville University student. This was her 2nd summer serving with us, and this year she was actually the student leader for the team of 5 that came from Cedarville University.
The young lady, Mary (not her real name), Abby refers to is from Hajduboszermeny and has been a part of the GoodSports ministry spectrum for many years. Mary and Abby got to know each other at the annual English camp held at Dorcas Camping Center, done in conjunction with Calvary Chapel Debrecen.
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| Abby and her class at Dorcas working on a poster |
It’s the worst. Tears. Hugs. More hugs.
Promises of communication, remembrance, and returns. There was no way around
it: camp was ending and the ritual was coming. My personal resistance toward
excessive pathos and over-emotionality prevent me from engaging in the tears.
However, I will not begrudge my beloved Hungarian campers of their desired hug.
It may have only been one week, but yes, I did grow attached to my students.
And Mary was no exception. She’s sixteen going on twenty-two. I’m not sure if
she truly thinks that she can take on the world, or if she simply gives off
that aura. Regardless, if I had been another camper, she certainly would have
intimidated me. I might have even avoided her out of fear and intimidation.
Instead, as her teacher/leader, I had a chance to spend time with her all week.
She starred in our music video. She helped in class. She led the class in group
activities. She even asked me questions (via a translator) about my life, my
relationship with God, what’s He’s done in my life. She got baptized the day
before. I loved her dearly. I respected her. Mary is strong, even if she can’t
see that. And now, at the end-of-camp ritual, I have to say goodbye.
She’s
standing by the car that will take her away, take her home. I’m not sure, but
she might actually be tearing up. This catches me off-guard; I pegged Mary as
a dry-eye, no-nonsense kind of girl. But no, she is definitely crying. I walk
towards her, arms outstretched, clearly in pre-hug mode. She closes the
distance between us and we stand there, embracing. I rack my brain for
something, anything that I could say, in Hungarian, that might offer comfort. Only
one thing seems appropriate:
“Szeretlek,
Mary.”
[Pause. One of the greatest frustrations
in knowing a teeny tiny fraction of a language is that, even if I can initiate
conversation, I can never understand the
response. It’s infuriating. I feel so proud of myself for saying anything
in Hungarian, and my pride immediately deflates when I admit that I understood
none of their response, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t understand. Do you speak
English?” And so, after telling this sweet, strong, tearful girl, “I love you,
Mary,” I simply had to wait, wondering if I would be able to decipher her
response.]
“Én
is.”
I
smile, aware that my eyes are watering. We release each other. Mary goes to
the car. We wave, blow kisses, and hold back (or don’t hold back) tears. I love
learning Hungarian.
“Én
is”—“Me too.”
